I rip open the door to the fly shop knowing exactly which two flies I want. Both Parachute Adams and Hares Ears are in low supply. Could I be a sign I grasp this whole fly-fishing thing? I figure my choices are so intelligent in their simplicity, that the cashier will notice my novice prowess and offer me a job, exclusively to tame beginners.
But really, I just read Trout Bum (for the second time), and the author, John Gierach, mentions a tackle box only needs those two flies – an Adams for dry and a Hares Ears for wet. This bit of news satisfied my simple heart.
For a long time, it baffled me a clumsy human can mimic the delicate and erratic movements of an insect. I have been teased, for nearly a year, by these damned Truckee River wild trout. So, today’s strategy is simple. Put a brown bug on the surface of the water and act dead.
Every weekend, I drag my family to the same river spot. We haul a load of crap to a modest beach wrapped by a fallen tree that nearly resembles a living room by the time we’re done with it. The boys get monster trucks and crawfish traps, the baby needs a pack ‘n’ play, auntie has white claws, and everyone gets a chair. I sit in mine to slip into my waders and cross the river when the baby falls asleep.
I arrive in a lush green meadow and sink into white clovers and purple Sierra daisies to tie on my Adams. This is the furthest away I’ve been from my kids in 9 months. All the sudden, time gracefully moves a little slower. The sun warms my cheeks, and the sound of rushing water relaxes my shoulders.
“She is putting fake fish food on a string,” I hear a mom explaining to her son from the hiking trail above me.
I creep into the water from behind a willow bush because it hides my shadow.
“Now her special overalls let her walk into the water. She uses the rod to fling the string in the water. Let’s see if a fish eats it,” the narration continues and I’m half drowning it out, but it’s also making me crack a smile. Usually, the spotlight makes me uncomfortable. But I feel like she’s narrating a bad TV show for me, and its entertaining.
Mike is fishing adjacent from me, calling out reminders about foam being home and keeping my line in the seam. He congratulates good casts and stays silent when the line lands ugly.
It always happens when I least expect it. I lift my rod and the line tightens, so I push my rod hand high into the sky. And by gosh, a little rainbow arcs out of the water.
Mike and I hoot and holler like we are cowboys winning a gun fight. The family above shouts, “She did it!” My poor son cries because he wants to see (and touch) my fish but can’t get to me.
I net a Rainbow Trout about the size of my hand. Still, it’s obligatory to take a photo to prove it. So, I wedge my rod in my arm pit and squeeze the net between my knees. I reach for the phone, and the fish flops through the bottom of the net. He releases himself from the fly and is gone.
I look up into the sky and a short, whisp of a rainbow spills out from a cloud. Still counts, and at least I still have my new favorite fly.